


Imperfections

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Lifted Characters, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, Orgasm Denial, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 16:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18347744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Cersei needs to exercise her power over Sansa. Sansa lets her believe she has.





	Imperfections

The queen's hands are soft, delicate, elegant. Golden rings adorn her fingers as she strokes them across the handle of her seat, a teasing gesture that makes Sansa shuffle uncomfortably across the room from her. She ought to despise the woman, and she does, she truly does. If there was anything she could do about that, she would. And yet there isn't, and so despite the guilt she feels whenever she turns up at the woman she once thought she wanted to be's door, she cannot think of a true reason to stop.

A gold band embedded with a red gem – garnet, not ruby, Sansa notes at a glance, and wonders what significance she should read into it – is pulled from Cersei's finger and lands on her mahogany table with a clunk. Sansa almost jumps at the sound.

Cersei smirks at her, that smirk familiar, practiced – it's starting to look quite forced. Despite everything, Sansa feels relieved. _She still needs me._ Perhaps needs is the wrong word, but still – Cersei still cares too much for having Ned Stark's precious daughter at her beck and call, ruined underneath her. She cannot give Sansa up. And Sansa knows that gives her power. Perhaps not much, but enough to keep herself alive.

Queen Cersei's beautiful, womanly fingers make quick work of pushing Sansa's silks up above her waist – these capital dresses are so _flimsy,_ no wonder such sin happens here – and she shudders, unable to tear her eyes away from them tracing a pattern up her thigh. There are many reasons she lets the queen do these things to her, but it's not because, no matter how evil she is, Sansa lusts after her. It can't be.

Soft fingers sink inside her smallclothes and Sansa gasps, her eyelids fluttering shut as she adjusts to the sudden intrusion. Cersei's fingers inside her are a familiar feeling by now, but it still sends sparks of pleasure and need up her spine that she'd rather not think about too hard. They push in and out and cause a wet, squelching noise that mingles with her shuddering breaths, and the space between them seems ever more silent for it.

Sansa can hardly help keening and clenching, letting out soft groans, and when she looks back into the queen's face Cersei is grinning at her, envy-green eyes flickering. She longs to be in control, and Sansa lets her believe she is. “That's it. Good girl. Pretty girl. You like this, don't you?” she cooes at Sansa like she would a pampered pet. But people take care of their pets, don't they?

She doesn't reply, simply spreads her legs wider and lets Cersei's fingers fuck her deeper, find whatever vengeance it is they're searching for. “You wouldn't like it if a man did this to you,” she says, with a sudden scowl in her voice – is she implying something, or giving something away? “They're rough, and crude; they just want to get you open enough they can shove their cocks in without you screaming. But not me. I look after you, don't I, little dove?”

_If you say so,_ thinks Sansa. She's never had a man touch her, she's never had anyone but Cersei touch her. She's sure the queen is sure she hasn't ruined their precious pawn's use. The Lannisters should have had her married off for something awhile ago, at latest her sixteenth year if not the day she bled, but Cersei has always been a jealous woman. She can't let her toy go yet.

And Sansa is grateful.

She's whimpering as Cersei's fingers curl inside her, finding that spot she has long since used to torment and reward in equal measures. “What would your lord father think, hmm?” her snide voice asks. “Do you think he'd be proud to see his little lady coming on the end of the Lannister whore's fingers?”

Sansa flinches, as she always does when she wonders what Father would think of this. But she tells herself, he never had to live like this, a prisoner dependent on any scrap they can find. He loved her. Maybe he wouldn't be proud, but he'd understand if he knew she only did it to keep herself alive. Father went to his grave trying to save her, and so she owes it to him to save herself.

She bites her lip to smother noises, and they both know that's the point when it's getting too much for her. “My lady – your grace – _please_ –”

And then the fingers are gone.

Sansa lets out a shuddering gasp as she's left empty, the air hitting her naked thighs, but she isn't surprised. Cersei sometimes lets her come, if she's in a good mood, but you cannot rely on it. You can't rely on that woman for anything.

This time Cersei doesn't even meet her eye, slipping her ring back over a finger still wet with Sansa's juices, and returning to boring old paperwork. “You are dismissed, Lady Stark,” she says curtly, like that will put Sansa back in her place: a toy to be played with whenever her grace fancies, but it's not to pleasure her, of course not.

Sansa lets her think all that, lets her ignore the fact she still needs Sansa to make her feel the queen she wants to be. She's not the naïve child she once was; she can take care of herself, once she's alone. She pulls down her dress and flattens her hair. “Of course, your grace,” she says, every inch the lady. For a split second, Queen Cersei catches her eye, but Sansa goes anyway.

She leaves there hot and roused and uncomfortable. But she leaves, and that isn't nothing.

 


End file.
